


Hold me down, I'm so tired now

by orphan_account



Category: The Tribes of Palos Verdes (2017)
Genre: (not Medina), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, F/M, Heavy Angst, Miscarriage, Non-Linear Narrative, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 14:48:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21255098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: There’s comfort in routine. The other girls complain about the mandatory meals, the weigh-ins, the twice a day group therapy, but you like the structure even if you don’t like process.It’s all that's holding you together.





	Hold me down, I'm so tired now

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are my own.
> 
> This subject (eating disorders) is very close to my heart, I hope I've done it justice. Read at your own risk. This story uses certain plot and lines from the movie To The Bone (2017).

“Go away,” you say, burying your face in the scratchy hospital pillowcase. “You know you’re not supposed to be here.”

“Talk to me,” he pleads.

You won’t.

When you turn over, Jim’s gone.

\--

There’s comfort in routine. The other girls complain about the mandatory meals, the weigh-ins, the twice a day group therapy, but you like the structure even if you don’t like process.

It’s all that's holding you together.

\-- 

“Her father has never wanted to know who Medina really is. She’s special, she has talent. Her photos have won awards. She was never going to medical school—”

“Oh shut _up_, Sandy,” Phil snarls, fisting his hands against the material of his slacks. “I just want her to be able to support herself. I don’t want to walk downtown and see her sitting on the sidewalk, begging for money. Is that so bad?”

His skin is tan, his teeth are white, he looks fine. Unphased.

You hate it. You hate how he gets to sit there looking normal while mom’s in the same clothes she wore last week.

Jim’s quiet. He’s said his piece.

He just stares at you, blue eyes bright and skin pale. The bruises under his eyes are a startling purple.

You want to reach for him, want to explain, but he turns his face away and stares angrily at the wall to your left. The shoulders of his denim jacket are dark, soaked like he’s been walking in the rain.

\--

Jim flops on the floor next to you and you squirm closer, holding his arm close to your face. The lulling heat from his skin and the smell of his cologne—tainted slightly by car exhaust—ground you as he makes plans for the future. He wants to visit Bali and Fiji; wants to surf real waves with you.

You smile, delighting in the pictures he paints with his words. 

Lying there, thinking about life outside of Palos Verdes, you feel that first hint of _something_. Something other than _friend _and _brother _and _twin_.

It scares you, so you push it aside. You snort and tell Jim to keep dreaming. You ignore the way that his eyes twinkle at you.

\-- 

Heather comes to visit in some desperate attempt at friendship and tells you that she’s pregnant. It’s Jim’s.

You’re going to be an auntie.

The chair you’re sitting on makes a satisfying noise when it hits the wall. The security guards that come running at the sound of the crash look surprised that you were able to lift it.

Fuck them. Fuck everyone.

After you’re escorted to your room, you spend an hour doing sit-ups on your bed. You lost television privileges the last time they found bruises along your spine.

\--

It’s the hospital—Jim’s overdose—that finally makes you see what you’ve been ignoring. Jim’s breathing is deep and even in his sleep, but he still clutches your hand tightly. You think about never feeling his fingers squeeze around your own and it hits you hard that you almost lost your tribe.

And you _know_. 

\--

You sit outside in the dark, smoking the cigarette that you traded for silence about the barf bag under your roommate’s bed, and watch the waves lap against the shore. 

Jim didn’t visit this week.

You think about the way that the moon pulls the tide, the inevitable ebb and flow, and you miss him so badly that you ache.

Chew, swallow, maintain. There are four weeks left on your sentence. The doctor listens to your heart during your next weigh-in, worried that your body's started burning organ tissue, and you wonder if he can hear the ocean.

\--

You get out of Adrian’s car and you run to him. You run to him because you’re his tribe, his other half, and he’s yours.

“I thought you ran away for good,” Jim sobs.

“I’m here, I’m right here,” you whisper as he folds himself into you in the middle of the street, body shaking with adrenaline. “You’re all I’ve got, Jim.” The tight squeeze of his arms around your chest makes it hard to pull in air. “You’re all I’ve got.”

The wet brush of his lips against your neck confuses and terrifies you because it’s confirmation of everything that you’ve been wanting for the last five months. Everything you thought that you could never have.

\-- 

The kiss is soft and tender and his hands cradle your face so gently that you could cry. He licks into your mouth and you open to him with a helpless whine. He tastes right. He tastes like home.

“Tell me, Medina,” he murmurs, breaking away to press his lips against your cheek.

The words are on the tip of your tongue. You want to tell him exactly what he needs, but it’s hard to overcome the wall of denial that you’ve built between your heart and your mind. Hard to stop running even as he pins you to the bed.

You pull his mouth back to yours and kiss him instead. Jim sighs into the contact and doesn’t fight you. He's content to take whatever affirmation you'll give him.

\-- 

Next family therapy session, Jim’s not there again. Sandy tells you that Heather miscarried over the weekend.

You laugh and laugh and laugh until the sounds escaping your throat resemble inhuman howls. They have to sedate you.

That night, still groggy from the drugs, you run up and down the stairs until your lungs burn and there are black spots in your vision. 

\--

It’s everything.

It’s everything because it’s you and it’s Jim and there are no more misunderstandings between you. His hands are slow and confident as he undresses you and you squeeze your eyes shut, wanting to pretend that it’s the first time for both of you.

He doesn’t let you hide. His fingers hold your chin captive and he whispers your name, stroking you sweetly, cataloguing your sounds, until you have no choice but to look at him. 

He takes you apart thrust by thrust, drugging kiss by drugging kiss and you’re delirious with it; panting and rolling up into his movements as he murmurs, "just like that, you feel so good.”

You come, clenching hard around him, clinging to his neck, and feel something that you didn’t know was missing settle inside of you.

\--

“What’s going on with you, Medina?” Dr. Rollins asks. “The nurses tell me that you’re about a week away from getting a tube.”

You stare at his tie and admire the way that the sun desaturates the colour. You feel that way sometimes; bleached out and gray. “People say they love you. But what they really mean is they love how loving you makes them feel about themselves,” you tell him. 

He accepts the non-sequitur easily. “You’re talking about your parents. Your mother.”

“I’m talking about myself,” you snap. 

A pause for both of you to regroup. 

“You feel responsible for Jim’s spiral.” It’s not a question and you flinch, tapping your fingers against the edge of your seat.

“I guess I just don’t see the point.”

“In what?”

You shrug. “Pretending that I didn’t burn in that fire.”

\--

“Medina,” he calls, pulling you to a stop by the hand. “I’m sorry if I fucked things up. I didn’t mean to.”

You don’t have time for this. Not now. Escape is so close. You just need him to keep moving.

“It’s okay, Jim. But we gotta go, okay,” you coax, edging closer to the curb. He pulls away again.

“You said someone should burn the place down.” The crack of the flare sparking to life is loud. You blink, adjusting to the brightness of the flame in Jim's hand. He looks tired, resolved.

It scares you.

“Jim,” you say, struggling not to panic. “Remember what we talked about.”

He won’t let you get close. He thinks he’s found a solution to all of the problems; the pain.

“I love you, Medina.”

\--

Dr. Rollins tells you to grow up and stop waiting for someone to save you. "Bad things are going to happen," he says. What kind of shit is that? Is it supposed to be a call to action? Inspiring?

You pack your things in a fit of rage and leave the hospital at a fast clip. Rollins lets you go. He’s convinced that you need to hit rock bottom.

Like you’re not already there.

You’re so weak from your sprint that you hardly make it onto the bus. People stare when you wobble on your feet and offer you food. You assure them that you’re fine. You just need to get home.

After the bus drops you off, you stumble down to your beach in the dark and sprawl in the sand, listening to the gentle whoosh of the ocean. You must doze off because the sun is coming up when you open your eyes.

Jim’s there when you turn your head. He chews at a thumbnail looking concerned, pensive. It's nice to see him lit up with streaks of pink and orange. He's kept himself away for weeks, punishing you. 

“You’re giving up,” he accuses, lips set in a stern line. The disappointment in his tone stings.

“I'm sorry, Jim," you tell him, limbs heavy against the ground. It doesn't make up for your betrayal, for your willful ignorance of the extent of his addiction, but it's all you have to offer. 

His eyes light with frantic energy as he reaches out to cup your face. “You can’t give up. You were happy with me. We can be happy again.”

“No we can’t,” you rasp, throat dry and lips cracked.

“Why not?” he demands, thumb rubbing hard over your cheekbone, scrubbing away your tears. You close your eyes and remember the drowsy warmth of his skin against yours.

“Because you’re dead, Jim.” 


End file.
